


The Mighty Fall

by TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan



Series: Blindsided [2]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blindness, Eventual Happy Ending, Fights, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan/pseuds/TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan
Summary: Pete and Patrick are full of surprises for each other. (It's easy for there to be surprises and misunderstandings when Pete is all blind and insecure and, well, Pete.)After about a year of being together (including a few months of doing the van thing), Patrick starts withdrawing from Pete andacting strange. Pete gets suspicious and flips out.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Series: Blindsided [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553179
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	The Mighty Fall

Pete awoke at an untold hour, pleasantly sore and still riding a little of the euphoria from last night.

Patrick had been amazing, as usual. When they'd started seeing each other a little over a year ago, Patrick had had the unmitigated nerve to act all timid.

_Ha._

Underneath that shy demeanor lay a latent sex god. He was smooth, skilled, attentive, and the best part: _responsive_. Pete knew without a doubt at this point where Patrick's hotspots were, even without being able to see, because of Patrick's absolutely perfect twitches, tremors, and _God_ , the _sounds_ he made. When Pete hit something right, did something Patrick liked, it was like finding the right string on his bass, or knowing how to work a pitch pipe, or something like that, the way he made these unearthly, beautiful notes come out of him.

Pete stretched his body, lazy and leisurely, and loosed a contented little groan, feeling the tension ball in his calves a little, but release from his lower back and shoulders.

_Problem..._

When he let his arm fall to the other side of the bed, it was empty. He had no idea what time it was or where his boyfriend, his anchor, might be.

_Where is Patrick? Where am I? When am I?_

He felt adrift for a moment, the sharp prickles of panic flaring in his chest as he scrambled for his phone on the nightstand. After a couple of deep breaths, Pete found the function that told him it was 9:24 am on Friday morning. (Thank goodness Patrick had had the good sense to find that for him. He still couldn't reason why he'd never tried to use it before, except that maybe calling the Operator meant having another human voice when he'd felt so isolated.)

In their life before Fall Out Boy, Patrick would have been in class while Pete wrote and wrote and wrote (or more accurately, talked and talked at his computer) until his head hurt and his eyes stung with tears from the catharsis of it all. Now, they had had a rare night where they could sleep in a motel on an actual bed in... Kenosha? Racine? Somewhere in East Bumblefuck, Wisconsin. Pete still wasn't entirely used to sleeping through the night; it got disorienting sometimes. He and insomnia had become such close companions, especially since he'd lost his sight and thus his ability to tell night from day. In theory, it should have been worse with the constant movement from city to city. Having Patrick assuage his sleeplessness with not only soothing away the voices of all the monsters in his head, but also wearing him out so thoroughly that he had no choice but to  
sleep deeply and peacefully... It was, in word, foreign. Still, he liked being a tourist in this new emotional destination. He'd get comfortable enough to put down stakes eventually.

_Maybe Patrick just went for coffee, or something._

Pete made his way to the shower and luxuriated in the way the hot water relieved the tension in his muscles. His mind drifted to all the wonderful ways Patrick had put that tightness there in the first place...

_Good God, but I cannot possibly be horny again. We had sex three times last night! How is this even..._

Still, his hand was around his fully hard cock before he could even finish his thought. He pulled quick and tight, panting as he thought of Patrick's skin, his mouth, his voice... Pete gasped as he came, his free hand planted on the tile wall as his stomach tightened and he spilled his release, letting it rinse off of him and fall down the drain. Once he was clean and dry, towel around his waist, he heard the door open and close.

“Patrick?” Pete called from the bathroom. “Please tell me you've brought me caffeinated goodness.”

“Pete?” Patrick called back, sounding confused, off-guard. “What are you doing up? It's not even ten.” There was a telltale sound of Patrick flopping back onto the bed, then shoes hitting the floor.

“I don't know, I just woke up. What are you doing up, all moving and coherent-like, in the actual morning?”

“Oh, um, I got a phone call, and once I got up to take it, I couldn't get back to sleep. So I, uh, went for a walk, because... I didn't wanna disturb you, but now I'm exhausted again. Sorry, I uh, didn't bring coffee. I just didn't think you'd be up yet, so I figured we'd caffeinate later.”

“Well... who was it?” Pete asked, not sure why he needed to know. Probably because he thought everyone on the planet knew not to disturb Patrick before noon. A morning phone call might be important.

“Oh, um, my mom,” Patrick said, his voice muffled, presumably by bedding. Pete didn't like the uncertainty in his tone. If there was anything Patrick had come to represent for him, it was certainty, solidity, a rock to cling to in the maelstrom.

Pete felt his way back to the bed and sat down, accidentally getting Patrick's foot under him, then they repositioned fluidly. “Well, is everything alright?”

Patrick yawned. “Oh yeah, it's fine. Nothing major. C'mere.” Pete felt Patrick's hand on his knee, beckoning him. Pete went willingly, curling himself into Patrick's side. Patrick put his arm around Pete and hummed happily. Soon, his breathing evened out as he fell back asleep. Pete lay awake, something nagging in the back of his already-too-busy brain.

******

The next week was relentless gigs and driving, almost enough to distract Pete from the weird morning in Wherever, Wisconsin.

“It was Oshkosh!” Andy said, exasperated. “There are hundreds of other cities besides Milwaukee, you know!”

“Right. Oshkosh! Of course. I used to get my pants there as a kid!” Pete joked.

There was a lengthy silence in the van until Joe finally said, “Huh? What the fuck are you talking about, dude?”

Pete threw his hands up. “Ugh, it figures, me being the only one who's into fashion! OshKosh B'Gosh?”

Now the other three made annoyed noises. “Pete,” Patrick said evenly, “That was terrible. Please don't make me dump your ass.”

Pete got on all fours and rubbed one butt cheek. “You could never say goodbye to this!”

Unfortunately for them all, he also farted right at that exact moment, causing a clamor of groaning mixed with laughter and furious opening of windows. Pete laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes, collapsing on his side.

“My boyfriend, everyone,” Patrick said affectionately. Pete could practically hear his eyes rolling.

“Oh, you love me,” Pete said.

“Mhm,” Patrick said, his tone infuriatingly nonchalant. “'Cause, y'know, you’re just so charming.”

Pete laughed weakly again, and kept his smile up as he crawled back to a sitting position, but that nagging voice was in the back of his brain again, telling him distant fairy tales of his inadequacies.

_No, everything's fine. Patrick is just tired from being crammed in the van and the schedule and stuff._

As they unloaded, Pete heard footsteps take off away from the van, almost running. When they were gone, he asked Andy quietly, “Was that Patrick running off?”

After a beat, Andy said, “Uh, yeah. Bathroom, I think. You know, stuck in a van for hours.”

Pete nodded, words escaping him for once in his life, and went back to trying to help with equipment. Once everything was inside, he went in search of Patrick. The sound tech directed him to try the artist room. When he got to the door, he heard Patrick talking.

“Oh. Yeah, OK, that's great. I'll... uh,” Patrick stammered as Pete walked in. “Yes. Mhm. Yes. Uh, yeah. OK, thanks. Bye.”

Pete cocked an eyebrow, wishing he could see Patrick's face. “Everything OK?” he asked his tone growing more suspicious, despite how he tried to hide it.

“Yeah,” Patrick said with a weird little chuckle. “Just mom. She says hi.”

“Hmm. OK.” Pete could tell how flat his tone was, how sour. He just didn't know how to articulate what he was feeling, how to put words to the worry gnawing away at him, but he also obviously wasn't very good at hiding it.

“Pete?” Patrick asked tentatively. “Are you OK?” Then, there was a hand on his shoulder. Fifty percent of his favorite hands. _Patrick_ hands.

Pete covered that hand with his own and allowed a little smile. “Yeah. Just... you know, a lot going on up here sometimes.” He put a hand to the side of his head.

There was a gentle kiss at his temple, and then that lovely voice in his ear. “Come on, let's do this.” Then he was gone, and Pete was alone in the room, biting his lip and trying not to break down and beg Patrick to say he loved him, to hold him, to make him feel special again. He took a few seconds to take some deep breaths and compose himself, and then he went to join the guys.

Pete knew he wasn't entirely himself during the show. He was timid, not jumping or yelling as much, not seeking Patrick out as often. When they loaded back up, he was doing more than usual, once he had a clear path of motion committed to memory. He loaded up all the amps himself, and even helped Andy take apart his drum kit. He didn't know which was more surprising, the fact that he and Andy actually did a quick, efficient job at it, or the fact that Andy even let him help at all.

Pete curled up in the way back, away from everyone, listening to Joe ramble about the cute girls at the bar and Patrick cursing about how shitty the cell reception was in the middle of fucking nowhere.

 ** _What's wrong, 'Trick? Can't call your paramour?_** a voice in Pete's brain supplied. He shook his head violently, slamming his hands into either side, trying to shake the thought physically out of him.

_Stop! Stop it right now. Patrick would never do that! He loves me! He would never hurt me like that!_

**_Yeah, because you're such an awesome boyfriend. Not a burden in the least. It's not like he has to take care of you, or help you do such basic kindergarten tasks as tell time and remember where to stand, right?_ **

_Oh, my God, stop it! He loves me! He tells me all the time!_

**_And no one ever lies about that, right?_ **

_Not Patrick. He doesn't lie. And he would never do that to me. Ever._

It wasn't like this was the first battle Pete had ever had with himself and his more self-destructive, damaging thoughts. But... for some reason, this was different. The idea of Patrick pulling away from him cut deeper than anything he'd ever been through. Patrick was the first person he'd opened up to since the accident, the first person he'd trusted enough to really fall in love with, not just in-like-for-now, or lust, or whatever. He hugged his knees, thankful he couldn't see the stars, for fear he'd start begging, pleading, and wishing for things he didn't want to put words to.

******

A few days later, they managed to scrape up enough to have a real dinner and stay in a motel. They were somewhere in Indiana—South Bend, maybe, who knew anymore? Anyway, it was their last show before returning home for a break, thank Christ—and Pete was looking forward to some quality alone time with Patrick. He was desperate to... reconnect. Well, reassure himself, if he was honest.

The moment they were alone, Pete pressed Patrick against the door of their room and crashed their mouths together, desperate clacking of teeth and tongues, whimpering. He slid his lips across Patrick's jaw to his ear and said between kisses and licks to his neck, “Patrick, fuck me, please. I need it, need you, Patrick...”

Patrick was already rutting against Pete's thigh, eyes squeezed shut as he slid his arms around Pete's waist. “Pete,” he whispered, his head lolling back against the door.

Pete grabbed Patrick's hat and pulled it off, then unzipped his hoodie with trembling hands. He slid it off and tossed both items onto the floor. He let Patrick do the same for him, then stopped to run his hands over Patrick's face and neck, like he was committing the feel of it to memory all over again.

Patrick was shaking a little. What on Earth does he have to be afraid of?

“'Trick, baby,” Pete sighed, sliding Patrick's t-shirt off and then his own. “God, I love you so much.” He splayed his hands on Patrick's back and pulled him in to kiss him fervently.

“God, Pete,” Patrick sighed, his hands everywhere, restless. “You feel so good.” He maneuvered Pete over to the bed, turning him around and guiding him down onto his belly. He wasted no time in shucking off the rest of both their clothes. Pete could hear Patrick's breath was shuddery, and his movements were different... not more urgent, per se, but more rushed. Patrick prepped him quickly, and was seated inside him faster than he ever had done before. He pressed his forehead, which was already slick with sweat, against the back of Pete's neck as he thrust into him, quick and shallow. It was good, and Pete was moaning and definitely gonna come soon, but something still felt off; Patrick was hurrying and not being his usual tender, attentive self. His hips were snapping harder against Pete, his rhythm less regular, his moans getting more needy as Pete felt both their orgasms approaching already. He'd gotten very good at noticing it in the time they'd been together.

Patrick slammed into him then, crying out and cursing. Pete came at the sound of it, his chest tightening and his eyes stinging a little as he did. They moved together, riding out the waves of pleasure, and Patrick snaked his arms around Pete's chest then and kissed his shoulder, giving a pleased little hum as he did.

It wasn't that Pete was against quickies. Really he wasn't. He and Patrick had had to sneak in more than one rushed and surreptitious blowjob or handjob while they were at a gas station or rest stop before. But that was just to take the edge off until they could have a night like this. It wasn't meant to happen during a night like this.

While Pete was lost in his thoughts, Patrick had pulled out and was now lying on his back, one arm out, inviting him over in his customary style. Pete scrambled across the bed to curl against Patrick's side, clutching him helplessly. Patrick curled one arm loosely around Pete's shoulders and held Pete's hand with the other. He was taking long, deep breaths, his chest rising and falling in long waves under their entwined hands.

“Mmm, love you,” Patrick murmured drowsily. Pete clung tighter and breathed deep, taking in that familiar vanilla scent, and closing his eyes, his brain whirling with the panicked mantra:

_Hedoeslovemehedoeslovemehedoesloveme..._

******

_Pete is adrift in open waters. There's no sound but the waves splashing against his head. No boats, no planes, no human voices of any kind coming to find him. He can see in his dreams, and usually he's overjoyed, but this time he almost wishes he couldn't. All he sees is empty, cold ocean all the way to the horizon. The sky is a weird greyish yellow, like a bruise, and the water is a strange, mutable slick, constantly changing colors, like there's oil or antifreeze in it. Pete calls out the only word he can think of, the only one that makes any kind of sense to him right now._

_“Patrick! PATRICK!” He's so lost, so cold, and if he can just find Patrick, all this will go away. He'll be safe again._

_But there's something pulling him downward, under the waves, and when he's submerged, he looks and it's Patrick (as best as he's ever imagined him), smiling at him serenely as he pushes Pete down and surfaces. Pete tries to call to him, remind him he loves him, beg him not to do this, not to take away his breath, his life..._

Pete shook awake, gasping, shivering, and covered in sweat. He still felt that strange, disoriented feeling at not immediately knowing where he was, or when he was. He reached his arm out beside him, and breathed a sigh of relief to feel Patrick's smooth shoulder, rising and falling evenly. Pete wasn't wild about the fact that Patrick was turned away from him, but he dismissed that as irrationality piling on top of his already worried mind.

Or tried to.

He lay awake, on his back, wondering whether it was light out or not, but not wanting to check his phone or the TV for fear of disturbing Patrick. Granted, Patrick could usually sleep through anything, but Pete just wasn't willing to risk bothering him. Which could potentially lead to Annoyance. Which could then lead to Upset. Which could then lead to Fed Up With Pete's Shit.

Nope. He'd be quiet and let Patrick sleep.

If only his head would be quiet.

_He's been so different. Distant. Distracted. Fumble-bumbling where he's always been so sure and constant. Something's wrong. Something's wrong. Something's wrong, and it's My Fault. I don't know how, or what I did, but Patrick's perfect, so it has to be My Fault. It's always My Fault._

Even as these thoughts wore canals in Pete's psyche, he knew them to be irrational and unhealthy. He knew it, could identify the pattern forming. Years of doctors and therapists had taught him when he was being constructive and when he was being destructive. These thoughts weren't helpful, and he knew it. They were seductive, though, in their familiarity and easy, shadowy comfort (constructive, destructive, seductive... Pete knew this could work into lyrics somehow).

The bad thoughts always made sense when nothing else did.

******

When they returned to Chicago, Andy dropped Patrick and Pete back off at their place. Pete gathered his bass, amp, and bag and turned to head in. As he did, Patrick's hand came down on his shoulder and he said, soft and kind like always, “Hey, Pete, lemme grab something.”

“I got it,” Pete said, perhaps a bit too curtly, and walked off. Patrick got ahead of him to open the door to their building, and climbed the stairs behind him, not saying anything.

As soon as they were inside and had dropped their bags, Patrick said, “Hey, why don't you gimme your dirty clothes, and I'll take everything to the laundromat for us?” He kissed Pete on the lips and then there was the zipping sound of Patrick's duffel opening.

 _How romantic_ , Pete thought sourly. He found his duffel, opened it, then said, “Actually, I don't really have a system. It's probably all dirty.” He closed it back up a bit forcefully, then said, “I'm gonna take a shower.”

After a moment, Patrick said, sounding small and unsure, “Um, OK, Pete. I'll be back in a little while.”

Pete longed to follow Patrick, see if he was really going to the laundromat or running off into someone else's arms. Someone who didn't need him quite so much, someone who didn't flip out over the slightest changes in behavior... Hell, someone who could fucking _see_ him. He knew he couldn't risk being detected, and he wouldn't be able to see whether Patrick had noticed him. He wasn't even sure he remembered the way to the laundromat. Pete then took a moment to catalogue the fact that it was only his lack of sleuthing ability that stopped him from trying to stalk his boyfriend.

So Pete took the world's most unnecessarily long shower, and cried. It felt so good, so cathartic to release all the worry and pent-up stress, indulge the fears he'd been too terrified to name.

_Patrick doesn't love me anymore. Why would he? It was only a matter of time before he got tired of me and realized he didn't need me anymore. Pete the fucking circus freak._

When he dried off and got clean pajama pants and a t-shirt on, he called Andy. He'd know what to do.

“Pete?” Andy said immediately on picking up. “What's up?”

“Uh, well, I don't really know, like, how to ask this, so, um, I'm just, like, gonna say it, whatever. Is Patrick seeing someone else?”

“What?!” Andy spat. “Pete, how can you even ask that? He's nuts about you.”

“I don't know, he's just been... like, different lately.”

“Well, I don't know what to tell you, dude. I mean, we've been crammed in a van, not sleeping, working nonstop for months now. It's bound to wear on him. It wore on all of us. I'm sure everything's fine. You know how worried you get over nothing sometimes.”

That one hurt. It wasn't Pete's fault his brain played tricks on him. Still, this didn't feel like him being insecure or worrying needlessly.

“Pete? You there?”

“Yeah, I'm here. Maybe Joe knows something.”

Andy sighed deeply over the line. “Pete, don't bug Joe with your relationship drama. He won't know what to say, and he'll just get pissed at you for trying to drag him into whatever it is you think is wrong. Just trust me. Everything's fine.”

“Yeah, I hope you're right.”

“Later, man. I gotta crash.”

“Bye.”

Pete hung up, and didn't know how to feel about the fact that Andy had never advised him to discuss it with Patrick directly.

******

When Patrick came back from the laundromat (or wherever he was, Pete's mind nattered), he huffed and puffed straight past Pete to the bedroom. Soon, Pete heard zippers and drawers opening and closing. They got increasingly forceful, until Patrick said in an irritated tone, “You could come in here and help, Pete. I know you know how to put laundry away.”

 _You silver-tongued devil,_ Pete thought in that same sour tone as before. He got up and skulked to the bedroom, and started helping with the clean clothes.

“Thanks,” Pete said quietly. “You know, for doing all this.”

After a long pause, Patrick said just as quietly, “You're welcome, Pete.”

They didn't say anything else while they finished the task at hand. Pete tucked his bag in the bottom of the closet, then returned to the living room and curled up on the couch in front of the TV, where he'd been when Patrick got home.

“So, this is your big plan for the day?” Patrick asked in an attitudinal tone.

Pete scoffed. “As opposed to what? Our dates are over for now, and I finally have real furniture I can stretch out on, and hot- and cold-running water and climate control. What more do I need to do right this second, besides enjoy it?”

“Well, for your information, I was planning on having some friends over tonight, to celebrate the end of our first tour.”

Pete made that same dismissive noise. “Yeah. 'Tour'. Four guys crammed in a van, sleeping on amps and dirty clothes, playing some basement bars for three months, barely scraping up enough in revenue to eat most of the time?”

Now, Patrick made an equally derisive and irritated sound. “Is that what your fucking damage is, Pete? The fact that we didn't start out filling Madison Square Garden, or something? Pete, that's all gonna come. You said so yourself. You saw those kids. They liked it.”

“They did,” Pete conceded, his tone still sullen. "Although to be fair, I didn't actually see them."

“Oh for fuck's sake, Pete, you know what I mean! Could you stop being a buttface for two seconds and just tell me what the fuck is eating you?” Patrick finally spat. “You've been acting like a first-class dick for weeks.”

Pete shot up off the couch and nearly tripped over the coffee table in the process. “Oh, _I'm_ acting like a dick? How about how you've been completely different around me for weeks? Huh? How about how you pretty much treat me like... just your friend or just your bass player or something? You've been so distant it's like... like...”

“Oh well, excuse me if I'm not clinging to you like a goddamned spider monkey and proclaiming my unending love for you from every rooftop and website I can fucking find, Peter! Excuse me if I happen to have had a few other things on my mind besides spending every goddamned second of my life assuaging your FRAGILE FUCKING EGO!” Patrick roared. “God! You could have just talked to me, asked me what was up, instead of sulking and acting like a fucking child.”

Pete recoiled like he'd been physically hit. He felt hot, shameful tears welling up, stinging his eyes. He crossed his arms in front of him and hunched his shoulders, and said barely above a whisper, “I told you I'd end up being too much for you. No wonder you're...” he trailed off, not really wanting to finish the sentence.

“No wonder I'm WHAT?” Patrick bit out through gritted teeth.

“Nothing,” Pete said, hoping he sounded more dismissive and less terrified. “Nevermind.”

“No, Pete. Tell me. You think I'm, what? Growing tired of you? Moving on? Fucking someone else? Huh? Is that it? Of course you do. I'm just another notch in your bedpost, huh? Another fucking disappointment in the Tragic Life and Times of Pete Wentz. You're fucking unbelievable. I've opened up to you in ways I've never... I've never trusted or loved anyone the way I do with you. Never. So I let my attention be divided for a little while. It was still never entirely off you. I can't believe you'd have so little trust in me. In us.”

Pete just stood, dumbfounded, wounded. Patrick was right. He'd gone about this all wrong. He never even trusted Patrick enough to try to approach him and talk to him.

“So... what were you so worried about?” Pete finally asked.

“Oh, now you're suddenly concerned with my concerns? Ready to talk about something besides yourself? Sorry, but I'm really not in the mood to share right now. Maybe later, when we've calmed down.” With that, Patrick stormed off to the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

Pete collapsed back on the couch and buried his face in a throw pillow, allowing gut-wrenching sobs to wrack his entire body until he was practically breathless. Eventually, he tired himself out and fell into a fitful and dreamless sleep.

******

“Pete? Baby?” Patrick's voice drifted into Pete's groggy ears. “Come on, it's time to wake up.”

Pete swallowed hard. His mouth tasted like the floor of a taxi cab ( _don't ask me how I know that,_ he mused), and his eyes felt like they were stung by bees. Patrick's hand was on his shoulder, shaking him slightly.  
“Jesus, babe,” Patrick said with a little laugh as Pete stretched. “You look like you've been through the wringer.” Pete gasped with surprise as a kiss landed on his temple. “Don't move. I'll be right back.”

Pete lay still on the couch, almost afraid if he moved, the whole dream of Patrick being kind to him again would burst, like a bubble, and be gone. He heard dull thuds as Patrick knelt beside the couch, and then a cold, damp cloth was placed over his eyes. It felt delicious against the swelling and irritation from crying. Pete groaned with pleasure. Patrick's fingers traced over Pete's forehead a little as he gave a small chuckle.

“You were right, Patrick. I'm so sorry. I was so scared you didn't want me anymore, and... I just couldn't stop the voices telling me I was no good and I didn't deserve you, and... and... I didn't know how to talk to you about it. I didn't know what to say without sounding like a paranoid, jealous freak.”

Patrick gave a weary sigh. “You were being a paranoid, jealous freak. And I'm not completely un-mad at you, but... I understand. I know it gets nasty in that head of yours sometimes, and I need to be more mindful of that. But, you better listen up, Pete, so do you. When you get like this, I need you to talk to me. As much as you ever thought I was pushing you away, you were pushing me away twice as hard. And that really didn't make it easy for me, either, you know. I knew you were upset, and I knew we needed to talk, but... I didn't have the right words for you, yet, Pete, and I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry I let things get to that point. I saw you were hurting and I didn't know how to help.”

“Well, can you tell me now?” Pete grunted as he moved to sit up, taking the cloth off his eyes. Patrick sat beside him, and collected him against his shoulder. He put his chin on Pete's head, and both of them sighed contentedly.

There was a long pause, and Pete could feel Patrick's heart rate pick up against his ear. _He's nervous. Oh, God, whatever it is, it's bad and he's afraid to tell me. Please let him be OK._

“Pete, I can hear you worrying,” Patrick said lovingly, kissing Pete's hair. “Stop. It's... nothing bad, really. Just something I've been wanting to talk to you about. And... I didn't bring it up sooner because, well, I wanted the moment to be just right, and I was really, really nervous about it. Scared, even. Hence all the weird, nervous phone calls to my mom. And everyone else I knew, so I could get advice and plan this out just right. But I should know by now that I can't plan ahead when it comes to you.” He laughed a little and kissed the top of Pete's head.

Pete jerked his head up so fast he clipped Patrick's chin in the process, making his teeth clatter together. Patrick gave a startled, pained grunt.

“Sorry!” Pete yelped, reaching slowly up to find Patrick's face. “I'm sorry, 'Trick. God, are you OK?” He laughed, bewildered. “Welcome to life with a blind man.”

Patrick got up and came back after a moment. Pete heard the rattle of ice cubes and the rustling of plastic. “Well, Pete, that's sorta the thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

Pete nodded slowly. “Um, OK,” he drawled.

“Well, I was gonna wait and do this when everyone came over later, but uh, I think now is a good time.” Patrick wriggled funnily on his side of the couch, and then he grabbed one of Pete's hands, guiding it to feel the object Patrick was holding. It was a small, velvet box with a band in it. Patrick took a deep breath, then said, “Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz, _the Third_ , you are, without a doubt, the craziest, most confusing person with the worst fashion sense I've ever met. You're also the most beautiful, the most passionate, brave, and loving. I can hardly remember what my life was without you, and I don't ever want to know. So, um, do you wanna, m-maybe, uh, like, marry me?”

Pete felt his mouth falling open, felt new tears prickling in his eyes. He had only two words spinning random whirligigs in his mind, _yes_ and _Patrick_ , but neither one seemed to want to come out, so he just gasped and nodded his head vehemently. After a moment, his voice seemed to want to work again, and he finally stammered out, “Yeah,  
yes, yes, Patrick, uh, sorry, Patrick Martin Vaughn Stumph, I definitely, definitely, absolutely wanna marry you. I wanna marry you, like, times a million.”

Patrick laughed, slid the ring on Pete's right ring finger, then brushed a thumb over Pete's wet cheek. “Oh, no, we just got your eyes under control,” he half-whispered.

Then Pete was on him, climbing into his lap and kissing him fiercely. “God, Patrick, I love you so much. I can't wait to be your husband. And by the way, if you thought I was annoying before, with the whole constant declarations of love and how I'm the luckiest guy in the world, well, you ain't seen nothing yet. Because I am the luckiest fucking dude in the entire universe now.”

******

The party went on as planned. Everyone's moms and dads even made appearances, congratulating the four of them on their first (semi) successful tour. Friends and family wandered about, picking at the meager food offerings and chatting happily.

Pete distantly heard Andy and Patrick whispering furiously as he was trying to talk Joe out of going outside to smoke up (“Dude, our fucking moms are here!”).

Suddenly, there was the sound of something banging against a glass.

“Um,” Patrick began, clearing his throat. “Uh, hey everyone, thanks for coming over tonight. So, as most of you know, I had a big surprise planned for Pete tonight, with you all here. Well, as luck would have it, the moment couldn't wait, as is so often the case when it comes to Pete Wentz,” Patrick said this last pointedly but affectionately, garnering a few laughs. “So anyway, earlier today, I asked Pete to marry me, and he accepted.”

The small group applauded, and Pete found his way to Patrick and clutched his hand with both of his own.

“You're stuck with him for life, now, Patrick! You do realize that's how this works, right?” Joe hollered from his side of the room, drawing a peal of laughter from the crowd.

“I do,” Patrick said, his tone indicating his choice of words was intentional. Pete leaned on Patrick's shoulder. Patrick alpha-dogged his chin on Pete's head and said, “I'm gonna have the husbandest husband ever.”

The room gave a collective _awwwwwww_.

Pete said into Patrick's shoulder, “The mostest husbandest.”


End file.
